


"Happy Birthday, John."

by autumn_soldier



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Birthday Party, Gift Fic, Surprise Party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:59:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3480479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autumn_soldier/pseuds/autumn_soldier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just wanted a low-key birthday, perhaps go out to a show with Mary. But then again, we all want things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Happy Birthday, John."

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is an early birthday present for my friend, I hope you love it Bobby! It's not too Johnlock but it is fluffy as fuck. enjoy <3 oxox

From the minute John walked into the room he could tell something was different. The smell, the lack of sound...even the air hung differently. He hurriedly put away his coat and removed his shoes, walking directly into Mrs Hudson.

“Sorry, Mrs...where’s Sherlock?”

He was unable to keep the curiosity from his voice. A quiet house, without the noise of Sherlock’s violin or something going on in his room, either meant something very good, or something very bad. A new discovery, something distinctly not boring enough to take up the detective’s interest, or a bad day, which would inevitably lean into a bad night. Either way, John had to know.

“Oh, he’s out, I’m afraid.” Mrs Hudson smiled, covering her mouth as if to stifle a small giggle. He frowned, their not-housekeeper was much harder to read in many ways than Sherlock. Though his friend had the ability to hide every inner working behind an expressionless mask, Mrs Hudson disguised thoughts in other ways. Nervous laughter was one.

“Right, he’s out.” John repeated slowly, making it obvious how much he doubted her claim. She put a hand on her hip, and he began to doubt his resolve against the best landlady in Great Britain.

“Look for yourself, I don’t know where he went off to. He did leave a note, mind. He says he’ll be home in due course, and if you’re going to pop out, do pick up a tank of helium.” She states, as if reading from a script. John rolled his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The note sounded authentic enough, however he still felt like something was hiding from him.

“Well, he’ll have to find his own helium, I have plans.” 

A look moved across Mrs Hudson’s face, and she stepped in his way when he moved towards the bathroom, wanting a shower. He had to be ready before eight, Mary was taking him to a West End show tonight.  He couldn't convince her - though he’d tried - not to book the tickets, and let them have a quiet night in. His birthday only happened once a year, after all.

He made a face of confusion when Mrs Hudson barred his way, attempting to sidestep past her.

“Mrs Hudson, would you mind-”

“Can’t let you in there.” She insisted, laughter gone from her mouth.

“And why not? look, please I just have to-”

“Out of the question! Abso _lutely_ out of the question, you’ll have to wait until Sherlock comes back.” She said back, voice rising in pitch and volume, as it did when she became flustered.

“Why?!” He demanded, losing his patience, but still careful not to raise his voice. It was genuinely impossible to become angry with the landlady, so he supposed his irritation was a testament to how curious he truly was.

Her face underwent a few intense expression changes, each more dramatic than the last, until she hardened her jaw, having found the appropriate excuse.

“I have a gentleman caller, we spent the afternoon fornicating in the bathtub, and he is still in there.” She concluded triumphantly.

“Naked.” She added when John was silent, to drive her point firmly in.

“...Oh.” John responded, moving back from the bathroom and the smug woman before him. The image in his mind was not one he particularly wanted.

“I see, um, I’ll go and wait in my room until your...gentleman caller is finished.” John said, not sure whether to scream or laugh. Well, fuck the shower plans.

“I’ll call you for tea when it’s ready.” She called after him, and John’s excuse died in his throat. She’d no doubt make him a doggy bag to take to the theatre if he tried to duck out.

*************

An hour passed, and John had needed to resort to shaving in the sink in his room, and dousing himself in deodorant to compensate for the lost shower. He had worked his way into his wedding suit, as it was the only suit he owned. He swapped the tie for a blue one, and removed the flowers from the buttonhole, and stood in front of the mirror, staring himself down. The rather angrily handsome man stared back, looking harshly shaved and still curious. He found himself excited for Sherlock to be back, if nothing he had to know what all that bloody helium had been for.

John gingerly stepped from his room by seven o'clock, knowing he’d have to leave soon to pick up Mary. Mrs Hudson was pottering around in the kitchen, but the moment he came into view she froze, abruptly throwing herself in front of the counter, something obviously hidden behind her back.

“Bloody hell, John Watson, are you _trying_ to kill me?!” She squawked, not moving from her rigid position. John couldn't imagine it was a comfortable one.

“Not currently, Mrs Hudson.” He reassured her, making sure he had his keys, wallet and phone with him. He had given up wondering what Mrs Hudson chose to fill her day with, he was just glad they had an agreement of discretion.

He found his mobile phone sitting on the coffee table table, and his wallet on the armchair. But for the life of him, he couldn't locate his keys. His house keys were on their keyring he kept them on, but his car keys had apparently fallen off entirely. Or been removed.

“Mrs Hudson, your gentleman caller doesn't happen to have stolen my keys, perchance?” He inquired only half jokingly, and Mrs Hudson’s flushed face appeared behind him, whatever she had been working on was no longer in view.

“No, can’t say he has. I would know.”

“Well, then where the hell…”

He was about to tear open the sofa looking for the damn keys when a gasp from Mrs Hudson has him spinning round in alarm. 

“Oh goodness me!” She exclaimed, holding aloft an empty carton of milk like the holy grail, having taken on on a dramatic stance by the kitchen counter.

“We’re out of milk, love, would you go out and get us a fresh pint?”

“Mrs Hudson, I told you-”

“So you’re going to let an old lady, in my time of life, go an entire afternoon slaving away in this flat without a nice cup of tea with her biscuit?” She accuses him, laying guilt on John as thick as cream. He sighs - he could probably make it to the corner shop and back before having to go.

He retrieves his wallet and leaves, jogging down to retrieve her damned milk, buttoning his collar against the harsh cold. On the way there, he mused on how oddly his day was going. Sherlock missing and wanting helium, though that was nothing out of ordinarity. Mrs Hudson and her gentleman caller, missing keys. 221B appeared to have become a madhouse while he was at work. And in the midst of all this, it didn’t please him to know that they’d all forgotten his birthday.

He got in later than expected, condemning every step he took as he marched back upstairs. The shopkeeper of the off-licence had claimed every single carton of milk they had was out back, and taken a good ten minutes to get him a bloody different carton. He cursed the ground and the carpet as he let himself in, resolving to quickly eat, brush his teeth and run the length of London to collect Mary in time for the show.

As he stepped into their flat he saw the place to be dark, and angrily he thumped the switch, flicking the lights on. Upon doing so, Mary, Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Mycroft (even bloody Mycroft) all popped out from behind various items of furniture. The room was covered in decorations, a blue birthday banner, green balloons, (green was his favourite colour) and sat upon the counter was a huge cake, with icing that read: **‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY, YOU BLOODY IDIOT.’**

John must have resembled a deer in headlights when Mary walked forward to him, narrowly dodging table edges, a hand on her rounded belly. She threw her arms round him, and he clung on. His wife was the only person here he wasn't confused or annoyed at.

“The show was a diversion, darling.” She smiled at his puzzled expression. “I knew you’d hate being in a theatre for hours, and I know you don’t like a big fuss. So, we organised a small fuss. Just you, and me and a little get-together.”

"Our plan ran a little behind schedule, so I had my friend who owns the off-license move his entire store of milk to the back of the shop." Lestrade says, chuckling at himself. Well, that would explain the waiting time.

“You’re an easy one to fool, John!” Mrs Hudson accused happily, handing him a gaudy paper plate with a huge slice of cake balanced on it.

“Gentleman caller, my foot! If I was to have a man, don’t you think I would have taken him home to my bedroom?” She challenged. The logic was embarrassingly simple.

“Then what could have been happening in the bathroom?”

“What do you think we needed the helium for?” Molly answered him, batting a nearby balloon. "We had to hide them from you, so Mrs Hudson put them all in the bathroom. That and all the decorations."

He felt himself blush as he stared towards his shoes.

“And the thing you were hiding in the kitchen?”

“This cake, of course! Not easy with an ex-soldier always under your feet.” Mrs Hudson clarified for him, sitting down between Molly and Lestrade.

“But - my keys were missing, why were they gone? I keep them in my room at all times.” John pressed. All eyes went to Mycroft, sitting like a peevish owl at the corner of the room.

“Nothing is safe in this day and age, John. I had a friend pop by and take them, or else you would have gone and left this charming little soiree without it’s guest of honour.”

John had to smile at that. He slid an arm around Mary, putting a hand on her stomach where Hamish sat. But there was one more question he had…

“What about Sherlock?”

Smiles rippled through the room, and Mary squeezed his hand as a slim figure rose awkwardly from behind the side of the sofa.

“It was my idea. Happy Birthday, John.” Sherlock said, porcelain cheeks blushing as he held out a small square gift box, tied immaculately with a bow. John grinned as he moved forward to pull him into a rare hug, discarding the gift for now. Because, despite the madness that surrounded him, it was a very happy birthday indeed.

****  
  



End file.
